Frosh Meat

Today is the first day of class. Today is the beginning of my senior year. Today is the beginning of the end of college. Today I’m still a little buzzed from my first Senior Sunday last night.

I am perfectly okay, at the moment, in the realization that I only have a limited amount of time left in college. However, this is something that comes in waves. I know at some point in the near future [or even later today] I will be whining to someone about it being over and collapse into nostalgic fits of great proportions.

The thing that makes me realize it is all coming to an end, more than impending graduation and eviction from The Life into Cold Harsh Reality, are the people who are just beginning. The people who, doe eyed and innocent, greet today like they would Jesus if he came down and made them homemade waffles. With blueberry syrup. That he also made himself.

If you haven’t guessed, these people are the newbies. The young ones. The kiddies. The frosh. And they are nothing but a constant reminder that I am old and soon will no longer be matriculated at this University, but job searching and apartment hunting. It’s a scary thought. In all actuality, there is little difference between a college student and a college graduate. It all lies within the labels. It is just very difficult to make the transition from College Student to Unemployed Drunk.

The only thing that makes me feel better about all of this is a singular and solitary truth. At least I’m better than them. Now, I don’t mean in the way of human worth or anything philosophically trite as that. Just the important stuff. Allow me to explain.

Every year, on the first weekend before classes begin, the freshmen of the University find the need to congregate and pay homage to their gods in the hopes that they will bestow upon them bountiful portions of beer and alcohol. Their place of worship is the intersection of Waverly and Comstock. For blocks and blocks, herds [seriously, it is like all 3,500 of them showed up] of devote freshmen can be found, wandering from house to house, down street after street, looking for the gifts of booze promised to them by their deities.

Pathetic. Enjoy the house party that you and half your class found that costs $5 to get into, only to be served luke warm beer [and you'll only get one of those, because it will run out quickly]. And is it even worth it? The amount of self esteem you must lose after getting screamed FREEEESHMEEEEN by upper classmen in cars must totally take away from that one beer buzz.

As I sit here at the main desk of my hall [main desk assisting it up...$6.20/hour...jealous?] I am also noticing some several other reasons why I am better than those born in the 87′ or 88′ [isn't that disgusting?]. As many of you know, a college student is nothing without their student ID. This is many things to a student. This is nourishment. This is security. This is home. Without it, you are lost. You can’t even swipe into your building.

Within the last two hours, I have witnessed at least 15 freshmen try to open the main doors to the building without swiping. The look of pure confusion as they try to pull open a locked door is only trumped by the look of defeat as they just stand there not knowing what to do next.

Being the merciful senior slash RA I am, I decided to prop open one of the two doorways. Each doorway is comprised of two doors, and the doors are only about 3 feet next to one another. I propped open one of the doors in the hopes that the freshmen will just walk through.

I made one mistake, though. I propped open the EXIT door, and not the ENTRANCE door. So freshmen will walk up to the door, go through the can’t open the door cycle of emotions, and then just stand there. Meanwhile, 3 feet away, the EXIT door is propped open, just waiting to give them refuge from class. An additional 12 people [at least] have done this.

These kids have a lot of learning to do. They are still in the mind set that the food they ate at the dining halls is great. Sorry, kiddos, but they only cook the grade A meat for when the parents are here. Now its back to rats and pigeons. You should have taken a hint when you realized the dining hall is the bowl part of a toilet.

Eventually, though, they will learn. It will just take time, effort, sleepless nights and hung over days. But they will learn. And, like the Circle of Life, they will teach those who enter into our establishment in the years to come with a zest and energy matched by few. Until then, they will continue to be taunted from cars, turned away from parties, locked out of their halls and eating alley animals without knowing it. It’s the learning year.

Good thing I never did any of that.

ps…in about an hour and a half, there have been about another 15 people to get trapped at the doors.

And Then Patch Adams Got Sued For Malpractice

I’ve come to the realization recently that reciting any line from a Robin Williams movie in his voice is a spectacular way to spend time.

Changing the words ever so slightly is fun too. Par example…

Did you rub my lamp?! Did you wake me up?! Fuck you, you fucking asshole!

As you can see, Aladdin would have been that much more enjoyable if things had run their natural course.

I’ll Be Bleeding Now

So do you remember the book-made-into-movie North starring Elijah Wood?

Quick recap.

Boy hates family because family is so apathetic to everything. Boy does anything to get their attention. Parents respond minimally. One day, while eating dinner, there is the longest silence ever at the table. North [Elijah Wood] can’t take much more of it. Finally, it is his father who breaks the everlasting silence in saying the following:

I found some blood in my stool today.

North, not even a teenager, suffers a coronary. He then becomes a free agent and travels the world taking applicants for new parents.

Now, see if you can guess how this story applies to my life.

I was in about 10 years old, and sitting at the dinner table with my mother, father, brother and Nana [we lived with Agnes for a period of time]. We were having spaghetti, and, just like the movie, there was a long lull in the conversation.

I sat there, looking around the room, and wondered what to do. Now, mind you, I was impressionable. Couple that with the fact that I had no idea what the following phrase meant, I thought I was just addressing the silence of the situation.

I found some blood in my stool today.

Mother Margaret flew up from her chair, grew approximately a foot and a half in all directions, and bellowed with the rage of a dragon WHAAT?!?!

Meanwhile, the rest of my family just looked on, spaghetti hanging out of their mouths like a long strand of drool. Forks suspended in midair.

Registering the possibility of a certain death from the hands of The Beast Formerly Known As Mama, I ran. And in all truth and lack of lies, I have never ran so fast in my life.

On the other hand, I’ve never seen my mother do a standing leap of about 6 feet before.

I had an imprint on my ass for days.

Moral: jokes about bloody poop while eating spaghetti [or any meal] with family is strongly advised against.

I’m Magical

So the other day, I had just gotten back from the gym and was enjoying some breakfast and early morning TV. After I finished [Charmed on TNT...every morning at 9 and afternoon at 6...unless golf is on], I got undressed and hopped into the shower.

Approximately 20 seconds into the shower, a single dime fell off my naked body and into the bathtub at my feet.

I have no idea how this happened.

And Then I Disowned Them

I was almost maimed and murdered by a vagabond witch in my own kitchen when I was a child no older than 8 years of age.

[cue wavy lines and and sci-fi music]

I’m living in Winthrop, a small rinky-dink town shaped like a Hershey’s Kiss, on the cusp of Boston, accessible only by two land ways [one if it is high tide]. Winthrop is the type of town where everyone knows everyone, and if there is someone you don’t know, you can get the scoop after church or while pumping gas [the gas station attendant ladies who ran the book store Pages knew everything about the town].

At the age of 8, I would be considered a local savant, knowing the back roads and ins and outs of the town. I would never have to walk on the sidewalk if I didn’t want to. Backyards and fields were the way I traveled. The only thing streets were for were playing in, and the only thing sidewalks were used for was escaping cars. It was a disgustingly all American town to grow up in.

Until Halloween.

My brother [4 years younger than myself] and I were in the living room, no doubt doing something stupid. Well, he was doing something stupid, I was probably exhibiting signs of a developing child prodigy. Anyways, in the next room were my mother and father, having a very serious, but hushed, conversation. I couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying, but something along the lines of …can’t let them know…we should call the cops…

Now, being young, Mikey and I were obviously curious. Even at this age we know that things we shouldn’t know, we want to know, and things that involve the cops, hell that just makes the party better. So my brother and I wandered into the kitchen, in the hopes of finding out more about this situation. My parents immediately shut up.

Go into the living room, kids. Mom turned back to Dad and whispered We should really call the police, Jim…that person…

As Mommy Dearest [minus the wire hanger] said this, I saw out the window someone run behind a tree. Our kitchen window looked over our backyard, which was half grass, half wooded hill. And, in the woods, was a person. A screwed up looking, dirty, filthy, bum clothes wearing, scraggly unconditioned hair having, dirty like an animal that just passed through the birth canal smelling, crazy cracked out cadger.

Did I mention is was dark as a sack of assholes outside?

I was scared. I began freaking out What’s that? Who’s this? Where are they? Who’s in our yard? Where do babies come from? and my brother probably began picking his nose or something. I don’t remember.

My mother tried to silence us, but before she could get a word in edge wise, Freak In My Yard [FIMY] ran from behind one tree to another. Eyes on us.

After graduating from the diaper, I had only several experiences shitting my pants. One of them being during the movie Casper. I all the sudden couldn’t hold it anymore, and had to rush out of the theatre with my ass clenched tighter than a conservative in a…well…anywhere. Right as I pulled down my pants, the flood gates opened. Shitting yourself in a movie theatre sucks [though there are worse times...while playing a game of soccer, for example].

This may have been one of those few occasions in which I soiled myself.

Mom screamed at my father to go call the police, and he ran into the living room. She herself tried to usher us upstairs, away from FIMY and it’s possible dangers. As soon as my father picked up the phone, and as soon as my mother tried to push us upstairs, FIMY ran. But this time, it wasn’t to another tree, as before. It was a burst. It was a sprint. It was a dash. For our back door.

I screamed.

My mother screamed.

My brother screamed. Kind of. He was still picking his nose, I think.

Before my father could make it back to the living room, FIMY made it to the back door, and burst in. Screaming.

I have never been more terrified in my entire life. In all honesty, I was probably shaking so hard, someone may have thought I was just really bad at getting jiggy with it. Words really cannot describe the terror of someone breaking into your house, screaming their throat out, threatening my life, right in front of my parents. This is what $150/hour therapy sessions are made of.

As I began to feel my soul exit my body, I heard something that just did not fit the situation. Something so bizarre to the current state of events [death by a crazy] that I immediately stopped what I was doing [screaming slash shitting my pants].

I heard wild, hysterical, hellish laughter.

I looked around the room. My brother was somewhere behind me, probably as shocked as I was. In front of me was my mother and father, along with FIMY, gasping for air, they were laughing so hard. I looked from my mother’s face, to my father’s, to the dirty, grotesque face of FIMY, and then I realized something.

FIMY wasn’t FIMY. Oh no no no.

FIMY was my Auntie fucking Jan.

Now, in case you haven’t grasped this M. Night Shyamalan twist of events, this whole deal was a setup. By my parents. And my Aunt.

The Fuckers.

To reiterate, my parents and my aunt set up an 8 year old and a 4 year old child to make them think they were going to die. I hope, World, you realize this.

It is moments like these that define who we are. It is moments like these that shape our lives, forever altering them, for better or for worse. There are times when an individual will encounter a moment in their existence that will make a permanent imprint upon their minds and hearts.

This is a reason why I am who I am. This is why I am wary of my family.

Happy fucking Halloween.

Why I Don’t Use Crack [or] Give Back My Pussy

As some of you may know, I am chock full of stories. I enjoy telling [and re-telling, apparently] the things that make me who I am. So, right here, right now, I will tell you one of my more recent experiences that still makes me laugh when I think about it.

Over the summer, each and every Wednesday night, my friends and I frequent a place called Mezzanote [hosted by the one and only Ashley Cox]. It’s a great place to just hang out and enjoy some atmosphere, because there is such a motley crew of individuals singing, dancing, reciting poetry or, more recently, magic and juggling [I laugh only because I enjoy others making an ass of themselves]. I love the place, and look forward to it every week.

Last Wednesday, I was enjoying a conversation with my favorite bartender ever, Rhea, when the Mezzanote cat came in. Now, they keep the doors wide open, so every once in awhile a neighbor’s cat wanders in. Now, it isn’t some mangy piece of shit cat with a part of ear missing from a recent fight. She’s [and I say she because I have no idea] a sweet kitty, collar and all, who enjoys the company of good people and good music. Whenever she comes in, she’s greeted with a smile and pet from both employees and patrons alike. Hell, if she wanted to, she could have free range over the alcohol. We love her that much. Or maybe we just want to see a drunken domestic cat. Whatever.

Tonight, however, was not the night for Mezzanote Cat [here on referred to as MC].

Tonight, MC would regret her patronage.

So Rhea and I gave a hello to MC, and continued our conversation, which soon came to an abrupt halt, thanks to a scream that can only be compared to Barbara Streisand dragging her nails down a chalk board while singing one of her [or any] songs.

As we turned around, we saw a woman who was cracked out of her head, and probably a bit drunk too, rip the cat from off the ground and continue to hug it. She wasn’t only hugging it, but talking to it. And not just the regular way people talk to their pets. Oh no.

She was whispering to MC in her ear.

I have never seen an animal with a look of pure terror before in my life. Until that night.

So Rhea and I looked at each other, and continued our conversation, which was again halted thanks to the crazy cracked out cook. She began to say, to Rhea and I, apparently, that she was going to take the cat home with her, because her cab had arrived. We tried to explain to her, gently at first, that it belonged to someone.

Crackhead lost it.

She went off, saying some guy gave it to her, and it was hers, and she was going to take it home and love and care for it. I had no idea what to say. Honestly, I was a bit scared, because crack heads are crazy, and I didn’t want to die. Rhea stepped up to the challenge and began to lay the smack down, raising her voice a bit to convince this woman that she could not take this collared cat away from it’s home [we assume the apartment MC lives in is upstairs].

Crackhead fucking lost it.

This is where I came in, and said, in not so many words, she couldn’t take it because it was owned. Crackhead looked at the both of us, and with a look of HATRED [I don't think anyone has ever thrown me that look] stood up and threw the cat onto the bar! She turned around, hopped into a cab, and drove off into the night.

I was shocked. For several reasons.

1. Who tries to kidnap a cat?

2. Why does she hate me that much?

3. How cracked out was she?

4. Who throws a kitty?

Rhea and I were appalled and what had just happened. So we finished our convo, and I went back to listen to some hippy sing a song with bongos. Seriously.

The story doesn’t end so quickly, my friend. Oh no.

So about 30 minutes later, between two sets, I hear a small commotion from the bar, and look over. What do I see you ask?

Crackhead. Running out the door. Cat in her arms.

No joke. Crackhead took the cab back to Mezzanote, ran inside the bar, grabbed MC out of someone’s hands, and sprinted out the door.

Crackhead kidnapped MC.

At first, I was pissed off at the poor protection of MC on our part. Then I became livid because Crackhead kidnapped MC.

Then I went and told everyone because it was so damn funny. A [cracked out] woman took a cab to a bar, said Stay here, I’ll be right out, burst into a bar, kidnapped a cat, booked it out, then probably screamed at the cabbie to drive.

When I went to Mezzanote last night, however, I was saddened to hear we have yet to see MC. Crackhead still is holding her hostage, somewhere in the greater Syracuse area.

RIP, MC. Because more than likely, you are dead.

Bloggers Do It More Often Than You

Shut up. It’s been a long time. I know. So why don’t you start a blog and entertain yourself.

With that said, onto the topic at hand.

I find it very difficult to read the news or sit and watch it on TV [other than the D.O. I like pointing out flaws]. There is just stuff about the newspaper that pisses me off. Mainly that I find myself incredibly inept at being able to turn the pages without paper carnage erupting in front of me, causing feelings of inadequacy and frustration. With TV, I just can’t concentrate long enough. I can’t move back and forth between the anchor[wo]man and the f’n news scroll at the bottom. I always end up getting news all confused and wind up with a piece of information like Jennifer Aniston upset over break up, threatens hundreds with anthrax scare. It just never works out for me.

However, online news is totally different, and I don’t know why. Maybe because I don’t feel like I’m learning while on the internet, or maybe because I can watch my favorite shows at the same time, but online news is just so much more efficient than anything else. My favorite way to see the news is through Mozilla Firefox [better than Explorer], and their Latest Headlines link button. It is a great way to get world news headlines [slash BBC News is awesome], and it also makes me browse other headlines. You know. Out of curiosity.

So I came across an interesting article today about, surprisingly, bloggers. Technorati, which is perhaps the best thing I have ever seen, is the google for the blogosphere [the weblog community, for those of you not in the know] allowing for the search of 14.4 million blogs. Amazing. In the State of Blogosphere report [yes, as in State of the Union...but probably more cheery and honest] they said a weblog is created every second. New one now. New one now. Now. Now. Now…

With blogs growing exponentially [doubling every 5 months], their usefulness [other than procrastination] simulates their growth. The BBC report says Blogs have been used as campaign sites, as personal diaries, as art projects, online magazines and as places for community networking…They have recently shown how they can also complement and enhance mainstream press in coverage of events, such as the recent London terror attacks. With such a variety of ways to communicate a wide array of topics, blogs are becoming as necessary to a person’s day as a cup of coffee or a bowel movement.

One blogger, Steve Nelson [sorry if I wasn't supposed to use this name, but you have it all over the place] says it perfectly. He writes that Blogs are the internet’s sensory system. That’s what’s so important…Attention is paid to these sensory systems, so they are reinforced, and so they emerge and evolve. What better way for people to understand their society, sub-culture, group or interests than reading about people that are of a similar syndicate?

What’s even better is the very core of what a blog is. Communication. After becoming a blogger, I have come across tons of different types of blogs, ranging from personal diaries to design to community art. And every blog, regardless of how tired the topic, is somewhat unique in some sort of minute way. The words of a person, whether it be in verbal or verse, written or thought, are essential to someone, somewhere. In actuality, the very act of being able to share your thoughts is vital to us all, as it is a testament to our innate rights as human beings [I won't go into the whole everyone is entitled to the same rights spiel...but they do]. The BBC report testifies to this statement by writing that blogs have also proved to be a valuable communication channel for journalists in repressed countries who have no other publishing means.

Free speech at it’s height. How fucking cool is that?

Now if we can just ensure it stays that way.

Anywho, it seems that blogs are finally receiving the attention they deserve. Prior to this, it had seemed to be one of two things; either the incessant ramblings of a pointless prat, or the unique inner workings of an on-the-side-intellect. I still can’t determine which category I belong in. Either which way, I am at least still afforded the opportunity to speak my mind and share my thoughts, however pratful or intelligent they may be. And as I said before, the benefits of communicating one’s thoughts, on whatever matter, to whoever will listen, is worth the while.

If you are interested in starting a blog, of any type of variety, then click on the box at the very top right hand corner of this page entitled Get Your Own Blog. Or you could just google search blog and use a different website to get things started.

And remember…one hour of phone sex would feed 259 starving people.